Cold Lines
by TuanTaureo
Summary: Musings of a Blood Elf Mage, at the outset of the "Gods of Zul'Aman" conflict.


I guess there wasn't anything helping it in the end. Here's a little something I wrote half an age ago, inspired by a short story exchange on LJ.

Some random musings of a Blood Elf Mage, set in the onset of the "Gods of Zul'Aman" content patch. Yes, old stuff is old.

Rated in concordance with the game it's based on. If you can play WoW, you can read this.

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**Cold Lines**

The watchtower of the Tranquillien Guard rose in silent vigil over the ravaged, dead scar that ran across the landscape, the tall edifice mirroring its stoic upkeepers as they patrolled the small outpost. Eldritch lights flickered in finely crafted lanterns, lending the elegant building an ethereal feel that belied its grim purpose.

Amaranthien strolled absent-mindedly around the base of the tower, his magestaff swinging idly back and forth in beat with his steps. He paused briefly next to an exquisitely carved statue to look out across the bleak landscape, suppressing a shudder as the deepening evening chill began to penetrate his embroidered robe. Even in the blessed warmth of daylight, the Ghostlands were an unforgiving place; in the dead of night, the area was nothing short of lethal to the unwary.

Night … his lips curved in contempt and repulsion as his thoughts strayed to his wild kin in the far west across the sea. Kin – he let out a derisive sniff. His people had turned their backs on that connection eons ago, and he was no different. How those nature-cradling, progress-refusing savages could insist on dwelling in that accursed twilight of their precious 'World Tree' was beyond him. What else but sheer madness would drive a race to relinquish the power of the sun and the boons it brought?

With a pulse of thought, he levitated himself into the air, rising like a dragonhawk on a hot updraft until his altitude matched the fluted roofs of the buildings around him. He closed his eyes to the coarse darkness of the dusk and let his second sight flood his senses. He revelled in the surge of arcane energy that coruscated through his very being, swirling in multi-coloured rainbow hues around him as the Nether grudgingly fed him its luscious treasures. Even so, he curbed the forces carefully, mindful of the horrific fate to which his soul would inevitably and irrevocably be condemned should he ever give in to the intoxication of magic.

The overcast sky parted to reveal the full moon, its baleful, yellowish glow invading the sky and painting stark shadows across the land. The mage dispelled his second sigh and opened his eyes in irritation to the celestial body's harsh, cold glare. How typical of those Night Elves to worship such a farce of illumination that only shed light on the world because it simply mirrored the true source, without ever being able to truly match its splendour.

Another dark glow flickered at the edge of his vision, one that only those with the witch-sight could discern. Far to the south, crude walls of roughly hewn stone stood defiantly, emanating an almost palpable aura of malevolence and bloodthirst. Carried on the wind, the ominous, heavy beat of drums reached the mage's keen ears.

Amaranthien shuddered again, and not from the cold. If the Night Elves were savages, the Trolls were naught but beasts. Of course, his people were allied to the Horde now, with everything it implied. He had had the somewhat dubious experience of encountering the odd Darkspear, but he could admit at least to himself that there existed a few rather amiable fellows among their numbers – for Trolls.

The Amani were an altogether different matter. They had descended upon the Blood Elves like a holocaust, attempting to exterminate his very race for settling in this land. What did he or any of his brothers and sisters care about half-buried ruins of a cruel, primitive culture hardly worthy of civilised speech? There was power to be found here, power that his people depended on to survive, and nothing would stop them from harvesting that resource.

A mournful wolf's howl made Amaranthien flinch inadvertently. He shuddered again and lowered himself gently to the ground. He turned and walked back to the tower with slightly greater hurry than before. As a Blood Elf, he knew the gravity of spilled blood better than most, and blood would soon be spilled anew.

Behind him, the drums continued to beat out their dark message.


End file.
